“And you have a son,” the earl concluded, his gaze flicking to Arthur.
“You might take a wife if you desire offspring,” Lady Beckham said before she sipped her tea. She looked wise and implacable, perhaps because the uncertainty of this encounter had been removed. The earl wanted money and she had already refused him. Arthur guessed that his uncle would leave shortly. “I do understand a successful result requires the participation of both parties.”
“Save for the Madonna,” Arthur noted.
“One event only in the history of the world,” his mother said. “A miracle and a gust of wind. To my knowledge, no ladies since have endured such good fortune.” She smiled at her brother, who glowered at her.
“I did not come for advice, Yvonne.”
“Then why did you come, Reynaud? I assure you that we were quite content in your absence.” Lady Beckham sipped her tea, her expression angelic. “I can also assure you that I have no funds to spare for your debts.”
“That is not it.”
“Then whatis?”
The earl sighed. He rose and paced the width of the drawing room and back, as Lady Beckham and her son exchanged a glance of confusion. The earl dropped onto the settee opposite Lady Beckham and fixed her with a look.
Thelook.
Arthur, and undoubtedly his mother, immediately understood that the earl had a problem, one that presumably only they could repair.
That was not the most reassuring realization, given past incidents when the earl had donned with the same pleading expression.
If it was not money he wanted, what else could it be?
Nothing good, in Arthur’s view.
“There is a small situation,” the earl confessed heavily. “Which requires a happy resolution, an occurrence you can assure.”
“Me?” Lady Beckham asked.
“You,” the earl said, looking at Arthur. “You have to wed anyway, and making this match will set everything to rights.”
Arthur retreated a step, putting distance between himself and any suggestion of marriage. There were limits to his duty to the Tattinger family.
“Reynaud,” Lady Beckham thundered. “What have you done?”
CHAPTER2
The book might have been made of lead for the apparent weight of it in Patience’s bag. She was certain that everyone in the shop knew that she carried the scandalous volume and that even passersby in the street could sense that it was in her possession.
She wanted to read it from cover to cover.
She wanted to know how it had come to be in the shop at all.
She knew that the only person who could unravel the mystery was Catherine. This, in itself, defied belief as Catherine was the oldest and the most responsible of all three Carruthers sisters—but Catherine had been the one to proclaim her copy ofChilde Haroldto be missing when the Beckham’s order was packed. Perhaps it belonged to her husband.
Either way, Catherine knew the truth. The book had to be returned to her, and Patience only hoped she might gain some details in exchange.
When she left the shop, Patience did not go home. It was simplicity itself to ask Quinn, the family driver, to take her to Trevelaine House to visit her sister instead. Catherine was expecting her first child in December and now that her pregnancy was evident, she spent less time in the bookstore. It was completely reasonable that Patience would visit her. She even chose some books for her sister and bought some sweets from the confectioner shop next door to the bookstore.
She had never been able to read in carriages, unlike her sister Prudence who could read anywhere, but for once that did not vex her. She was thinking of Arthur Beckham and considering herself fortunate that her family did not mingle overmuch in society. She had found herself almost overwhelmed by the attentions of such a handsome young man, particularly one so inclined to make mischief. Had she encountered a number of such men in succession, each determined to charm, tease or provoke her, there is no telling what she might have done.
Actually, there was no uncertainty. Patience would have done what was right and proper—most likely, nothing at all but return home with her chaperone—there was a family jest, after all, that Patience suited her name while Prudence did not.
“I suppose that you have a very proper betrothal arrangement, to a very proper clerk who is very properly a suitable match for the proper daughter of a bookseller and publisher, and is not a man to make such improperly bold suggestions.”
She heard Mr. Beckham’s words again, and saw him, leaning over the counter, the light glinting in his dark hair. His confidence was alluring, to be sure, and his conviction that he was right as irksome as his surety that he was irresistible. Patience wished heartily that she might have been the one to prove his charm less than he believed it to be, but to herself, she could admit that she had been beguiled.
